


The Things We Could Be

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Jealous John, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving John’s wedding early, Sherlock decides to text an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For most of Sherlock's adult life, the dark streets of London had been his haven. He would walk silently in the shadows for hours on end, allowing all thoughts of the outside world to fade into the background.

Now, though, the dark London streets felt oppressive. There was an itch in the back of his mind, a raw emptiness that only three things in his life had ever been able to fill. He had just lost the first, and the second was ill-advised. It was taking all his strength not to seek out the familiar seedy underbelly of London and indulge in those baser cravings.

The third option, however, was only a text away, if he so chose.

There wasn't really anything to lose now. John was married, and he and Mary were probably on their way to their tropical honeymoon at this very moment. Pregnant Mary. John had them now, the two of them--the life that he'd always wanted. 

A deep, sharp pain lodged itself in Sherlock's chest. He paused, leaning against the wall on the corner of Baker Street. Feeling his heart pound in his throat, he slowly took out his phone.

He shouldn't do it. He should stay the course, just get used to being alone again. It's what he'd done for the past three years now, after all.

But instead of putting his phone back in his pocket, Sherlock clicked on his contacts, stopping at the familiar name--one which he had never deleted despite years of mutual silence.

There was always the possibility that he wouldn’t answer. He might refuse... or he might agree to come.

Sherlock ran his thumb over the screen in the echo of a caress. The thought of walking back into the empty flat at Baker Street, which would never again be inhabited by John Watson, was unbearable. 

_Come over? -SH_

He pressed send before he could change his mind and strode down the street to his door, opening it swiftly. Leaving it unlocked, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to the flat. Now that he had made the decision, adrenaline and anticipation were pumping through his system. He threw his coat down on the sofa haphazardly as he walked past, pulling off his tie and the ridiculous wedding jacket and waistcoat and discarding them until he was only in his trousers and button-down.

Seven long minutes passed.  Sherlock spent them tapping his phone against his own lips anxiously and looking out the window, until his phone finally pinged.

With shaking fingers, Sherlock opened the text.

_Five years of silence and you want to see me now? Why?_

Sherlock wrote a response as quickly as possible.

_Please. SH_

Once he pressed send, he realized that it was embarrassingly transparent and not much of an incentive, so he added:

_I’ll make it worth your while. SH_

Another minute passed.

_Baker Street?_

_Door’s unlocked. SH_

 

* * *

Sherlock was still standing at the window when the familiar tall figure emerged from a cab below. The man glanced upward as he opened the door, but Sherlock knew he couldn’t see him in the darkness of the flat.

Sherlock walked over to the door, listening to him cross the foyer and climb the stairs. The steps paused briefly, and then Victor appeared out of the darkness.

Without hesitation, Sherlock pulled him into the living room, kicking the door closed and immediately pressing him up against it. Grabbing fistfuls of Victor’s hair, he smashed their lips together, forcing his mouth open with his tongue. Victor made a sound of surprise, but he didn’t push Sherlock away. After a moment of kissing Sherlock back, however, he broke the embrace, pushing Sherlock back by the shoulders.

Victor’s dark green eyes seemed to glitter black in the low light as he searched Sherlock’s face.

“Are you sure?” he asked breathlessly.

Sherlock didn’t respond, simply twisting his hips in just the right way to cause friction between them, and Victor moaned slightly, his eyes falling closed. Sherlock took advantage of his momentary distraction to start ravishing his mouth again.

Soon enough, Victor stopped being passive, reversing their positions and pushing Sherlock into the doorway with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. He pinned Sherlock’s hands above his head, and started nipping at Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock let him take over, his eyes fluttering closed. This was what he wanted, what he needed.

At the curve of his throat, Victor sucked and bit with enough fervour to leave a lovebite. A particularly hard nip sent a pulse of arousal all the way to Sherlock’s cock and he whimpered slightly.

Victor’s hands were everywhere, and it was almost enough to quiet his brain, but not quite. He needed more.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock panted.  “I need… you to fuck me.”

Victor released Sherlock's neck but kept him pinned against the wall, his eyes darting over Sherlock’s face.

“If you dare ask me again whether I’m sure--” Sherlock started, and Victor cut him off, devouring Sherlock’s mouth again. Sherlock let himself drown in the sensation of the hard body, just a bit taller than himself but more muscular, pressed up against him. As always, Victor was taking and taking and taking in a way that no one else ever had.

Victor untucked his shirt and ran his hands up the small of Sherlock’s back, then crept down below his waistband. Sherlock ground his hips forward, pressing them harder against Victor's, already gasping for air.

Victor released him and stepped back, his features cut into sharp angles by the street lights. In daylight, his face was soft and almost genteel, but in the darkness he looked like a ravenous wolf.

“Bedroom.” Victor growled, and Sherlock pulled open the door, grabbing him by the lapels and bringing their mouths together again as he walked backward towards his bedroom. Victor unbuttoned his shirt with deft fingers as they walked, moving down to his trousers by the time they hit the bed.

Sherlock fell onto his back, and Victor was on top of him immediately, the heavy weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. Sherlock scrabbled to get his shirt off his shoulders, and Victor leaned back to give him room, pulling off his own shirt.

Sherlock was about to push his trousers off his hips when Victor stopped him. He worked the trousers off Sherlock’s hips slowly, almost a tease but not quite, never breaking Sherlock's gaze.  He leaned down, kissing Sherlock’s erection over his pants, and Sherlock threw his head back as he exhaled in pleasure.

“You are unbelievable,” Victor breathed, as he pushed the waistband of Sherlock’s pants down.

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to say anything at that moment, so he just closed his eyes, letting himself drown in sensation. He let his mind go offline, just for a little while.

“Do you have lube?” Victor discarded Sherlock’s pants, and was now kissing on the inside of his thighs, and Sherlock shivered. It had been so long since he’d been touched like this.

“Bedside table,” Sherlock breathed. Victor pushed his own trousers off and climbed up onto Sherlock, slotting himself between Sherlock’s legs. Their cocks brushed each other slightly, though Victor’s was still clothed in his pants. Sherlock shuddered in anticipation.

Smiling, Victor threaded his hands through Sherlock’s hair, leaning down to kiss him slowly, much more softly than they had been snogging before. Sherlock was impatient, and he kept wriggling underneath him, trying to get off faster.

“Be still,” Victor whispered into his ear, kissing the soft spot behind it. Sherlock grasped his muscular shoulders, pushing his hips into Victor’s just a bit more. He could feel the rumbling in Victor’s chest as he laughed lightly.

“So eager.” He pushed himself off of Sherlock, fumbling with the bedside table and dropping the lube on the bed. He turned back to look at Sherlock. “Condoms?”

 _Shit._ “I haven’t any.”

Victor cocked his eyebrow at Sherlock, who averted his eyes, feeling himself blush.

“Ah, I see, flying solo these days. I’ll admit, I always loved watching you touch yourself. Just thinking about that used to get me through a lot of sleepless nights abroad.” Victor kissed down Sherlock’s sternum. “Luckily for you,” he said between kisses, “I happened to bring some, just in case.”

He got up and grabbed his trousers from the floor, taking some foil packets out and tossing them on the bed.

Sherlock immediately pulled him down again, running his hands down Victor’s back to his arse. Victor grabbed the lube, pouring some onto his fingers.

“How do you want--”

Wordlessly, Sherlock turned over and pushed his face into a pillow with his hips up, presenting his rear to Victor without hesitation.

He heard Victor chuckle behind him as he smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s hips in a slow circular motion.

“You have the loveliest arse, you know that,” Victor said.

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.

“By whom?”

Sherlock lifted his face and looked over his shoulder. Victor’s irises were almost completely obscured by his widened pupils, and his light hair was completely askew.

“You,” he said dryly.

Victor laughed, that light and airy laugh that Sherlock hadn’t heard in so long; the laugh he had once craved to bring out from those lips, that mouth.

“Spread,” Victor said, reaching down to tease Sherlock’s cock once.

Sherlock hissed, and pushed his legs wider. He felt Victor massaging around his hole, slowly, tantalizingly, before he pressed one finger in.

Sherlock automatically canted his hips backward, pushing against the pressure, and Victor was up to at least the second knuckle almost instantly.

“God, Sherlock.” Victor massaged his finger around, pressing open-mouthed kisses into Sherlock’s hips.

“More,” Sherlock mumbled.

Victor retracted his finger, adding another and pressing inward. Sherlock inhaled sharply, but he soon felt open and ready.

“Victor,” Sherlock whined, turning his head to the side.

“Say it,” Victor said, twirling his wrist again and almost, but not quite, reaching Sherlock’s prostate.

“I need your cock, now. I need it. Please," he whimpered.

Victor kissed his lower back again, removing his fingers carefully. “Your wish is my command.”

Sherlock didn’t move as he heard a packet being ripped open, and lube being applied. Soon enough he felt the head of Victor’s cock against his entrance, and he pressed backward without hesitation, allowing his body to engulf him.

“Jesus,” Victor huffed, curling around Sherlock. “Too much?”

“No, more,” Sherlock panted, tilting his hips up farther as Victor pressed forward.

“God, Sherlock,” Victor moaned, retracting slowly and pushing in again. He leaned forward, pulling Sherlock’s head up enough to plunder his mouth with his tongue, but it was too awkward an angle and he had to release him again. Instead, Victor started leaving open-mouthed kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder blades, murmuring soft endearments into his skin.

Pressing his face into the pillow, Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of the hardened muscles, the compact body behind him. Without warning, John’s face flashed into his mind. He winced inwardly, trying to clear the image, but he couldn’t. The thrusting grew faster, harder, and Sherlock pushed back against Victor. Moaning slightly, Sherlock let himself imagine, just for a moment, that it was John behind him. Victor reached down to stroke him hard and fast, until he was teetering on the edge. He leaned down and bit Sherlock’s shoulder, hard, and that was more than enough to cause him to climax. Sherlock bit his lip hard enough that he tasted blood to keep himself from screaming John’s name as the orgasm ripped through him. 

After a few more thrusts, Victor cried out, collapsing over him. They were both slick with sweat and panting heavily.

Eventually his breathing starting to slow, and Sherlock turned his head a bit.

“Well, that was…”

“Not bad,” Victor finished for him, pulling out carefully.

“Only ‘not bad?’” Sherlock mumbled, still lying facedown on the mattress.

“You know you’re a fantastic shag, there’s no need to stroke that ego further,” Victor said from the other side of the room, disposing of the condom no doubt. “Flannel?”

“Bathroom cabinet. And I reciprocate the sentiment.”

“Well, having a good sex life was never our problem, now was it?” He walked out of the room, and Sherlock could hear the faucet turning on.

“Just tell me one thing. What happened?” Victor said as he reemerged, flopping back on the bed.

Sherlock bristled, turning onto his side so that his back was to Victor. “Nothing _happened._ ”

He could practically hear Victor rolling his eyes as he cleaned Sherlock off, then himself.

“You can’t fool me,” he said, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. “After five years, you suddenly you text me out of the blue for a shag? Not that I mind, I mean, it was a bloody good shag, but...” he trailed off.

Sherlock frowned at the wall.

“Oh,” Victor said simply.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

The silence was laden with all that Victor left unsaid, in that unsettling way he’d always had. Some things never changed.

“It was him, wasn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about," Sherlock said tersely.

Victor pulled Sherlock towards him so that he was flat on his back. Sherlock kept his gaze on the ceiling, but he could feel Victor scrutinizing him.

“I followed your career, you know,” he said softly. “I read John’s blog, saw you on the telly. I watched from afar as you become a celebrity. I even…” he paused, ducking his head slightly. “I even went to your funeral. I was abroad when I found out you were alive.”

Sherlock blinked, letting his eyes focus on the face in front of him. Victor’s eyes were filled with a deep sadness as he twirled a lock of Sherlock’s hair around a finger absently.

“You really think I couldn’t tell?” Victor said quietly, startling Sherlock. He’d expected Victor to admonish him about faking his death, but he was apparently one of few people who could still surprise him.

Sherlock swallowed. “Tell?”

Victor leaned down to kiss him, softly, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock’s hip bone. “That you were in love with John Watson,” he said. “And, it appears… you still are.”

Unable to find the strength to whip up a sarcastic retort, Sherlock just shook his head.

“If I am just a stand-in for another bloke, I think I deserve to know why. How did you push him away?”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said weakly, trying to turn onto his side again, but Victor held him in place.

“Oh, wait, no, let me guess. You started using again?”

Sherlock froze. It was a low blow, though he deserved it. “No.”

Victor went on, undeterred. “It must have had something to do with you ‘dying,’ then.”

“It has nothing to do with that. He’s not… he doesn’t… he’s…” Sherlock stuttered, feeling a flush curl up his neck. He stopped, angrily rubbing his hand over his face.

“Oh.” Victor’s face relaxed in comprehension. “You knew better than that, Sherlock. It’s just asking for heartbreak.”

“As if you have never slept with your allegedly ‘straight’ comrades in the war zone?” Sherlock spat, attempting deflection.

Victor shrugged. “That’s different. Most of the men I was with were either gay or bi, just not openly. Your John would know that, I’d wager.”

“He’s not _my_ John,” Sherlock said quickly, turning to his side and pressing his face into his forearm. He suddenly felt completely exhausted.

Victor watched him, all trace of aggression gone. “No, I suppose he isn’t.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, and he was looking at Sherlock with what almost seemed like… pity. “I know what it’s like to love someone who can’t love you back, Sherlock,” Victor said quietly.

“Don’t," Sherlock whispered.

Pressing his lips together, Victor just pulled him closer. Sherlock took the opportunity to settle his head on Victor’s chest, curling himself against his body.  “Please. Don’t.”

Victor stroked between his shoulder blades in a comforting way and kissed his forehead. “All right."

 

 

* * *

John couldn’t sleep.  

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock’s face when he had last seen him, almost a month ago. Sherlock must have slipped out of the reception without anyone noticing, but John hadn’t really thought... he didn’t know what he had thought.  

Rubbing his eyes, he cursed himself silently once again for not checking on Sherlock before they left on the honeymoon. He’d sent dozens of texts, but there had been no answer, of course. Eventually, he’d stopped trying.

By the time birds were chirping in the window he still hadn’t dozed off. John looked over at Mary’s relaxed face. She had been exhausted after the wedding, and more than a little surprised about the news of their baby. She had even seemed a little scared, though John figured that was normal the first time round.

Extracting himself carefully from her grasp, John got up, putting on some jeans and a jumper. He had to go and check on Sherlock; he would never be able to forgive himself if something had happened. After quickly scribbling a note, he pressed a kiss to Mary’s forehead and was off.

Only an hour later, he was staring up at the familiar facade of 221 Baker Street. It felt strange, though it was exactly the same as it had always been. It was no longer his home, and it never would be again.

John used the key he had never returned to open the door. “Hello?” he called out tentatively, but there was no answer. He slowly climbed the familiar stairs, pausing as he stepped onto the landing. Sherlock’s coat wasn’t there, but someone else’s was.

“Did you buy milk?” An unfamiliar voice called out. John froze in the entryway to the kitchen, as he saw a tall, rather handsome man come out of Sherlock’s bathroom. His hair was wet and he was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

As the man’s eyes fell on John, he stopped short.  “Oh, I’m sorry, can I help--” the man started to say in a posh public school accent, but then his eyes widened slightly in what seemed like recognition.

John couldn’t seem to form any words.

“Please excuse me,” the man said politely, ducking back into Sherlock's room. After a few moments, he reemerged, having donned one of Sherlock’s dressing robes.

“Would you like some tea?” he said smoothly, all elegant lines and poise as he walked into the kitchen. “Sherlock has been out working all night, but he should be back soon.” He started filling the kettle. 

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John choked out, finally finding his voice.

The man set the kettle on the stove, turning back to John and extending a hand. “Victor Trevor, at your service. And you’re Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, if my memory serves me right. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 _Finally?_   John stared at the hand, dozens of questions running through his mind. There was an extremely attractive, mostly-naked man in Sherlock’s flat, and there were only a few possible explanations for that.

Finally, he grasped the man’s hand, shaking it firmly but briefly.

Victor looked him up and down with interest. “Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” John said cautiously. “You?”

“Iraq.” Victor turned to stick some bread in the toaster and take jam out of the cabinet.

“Which division?”

“SAS,” Victor said in an offhand way, as if having been in the most elite special forces in the country was barely worth mentioning.

John swallowed. “Still active?” His throat felt unnaturally dry for some reason. 

“God, no. Four tours, and a bit of shrapnel to the leg put me out of commission. I’ve been teaching for the past year. Philosophy. Sherlock always thought it was such a bloody waste of time, but then again, he thinks sleeping and eating are also a waste of time, as I'm sure you know.” He cracked a blindingly white smile.

The kettle clicked, and Victor took out the teapot along with two mugs.

“Are you Sherlock's new... flatmate?” John asked weakly, addressing the elephant in the room in the most passive way possible.

"In a manner of speaking," the man said without turning around.

 _That didn't exactly answer my question._ "How do you know him?" 

Victor set the teapot and mugs on the table, then started setting out the toast and jam. “We met at uni,” he said simply. 

“He never mentioned you,” John muttered under his breath. 

Victor paused right before he put the plate on the table, looking at John with an intense gaze that made his hackles rise. “No, he wouldn’t have, would he,” he said thoughtfully.

He sat down, then gestured towards the other chair. “Please, sit.”

John opened his mouth to refuse when he heard the door open below them and the sound of someone coming up the stairs two at a time.

“Ah, that will be him now,” Victor said, pouring himself some tea.

Sherlock bounded into the room, raising his eyebrows as he saw John. He was wearing sweatpants and a baggy, stained shirt and jacket. His hair was unkempt and greasy, and he was even paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, skirting around him. “Hello, John.”

“What the hell are you wearing?” John asked, his forehead furrowing.

“It’s for a case,” Sherlock quipped. He walked over to Victor, who scrunched his nose. “Shower first--” Victor began.

“Nope,” Sherlock said, grabbing him by the neck, leaning down and… _kissing_ him. It wasn’t a short or chaste kiss, either, by any stretch of the imagination.

John gripped the chair in front of him, gaping at this display. After a moment he realized he was staring, so he turned away and tried to act nonchalant, as if seeing Sherlock snog someone was an everyday occurrence.

As Sherlock broke away, Victor glanced at John but quickly averted his eyes. Sherlock appeared not to notice, grabbing a piece of toast as he walked by.

“You didn’t buy milk, then?” Victor called after him.

“Don’t ask questions to which you already know the answers,” Sherlock called back. John could hear the door to bathroom open and shut.

Victor rolled his eyes, smiling at John exasperatedly. John suddenly had an uncontrollable urge to punch him.

Victor’s smile wavered, and his eyes flicked to John’s hand, which was clenching and unclenching at his side. He didn’t comment on it, instead pouring tea into John's cup.

“Tea, Dr. Watson?”

Unable to think of a good reason to refuse, John sat, taking the cup. "Thanks."

After two cups of tea-- mostly consumed in an awkward silence-- Sherlock reemerged, clean shaven and dressed in a sharp blue suit. Victor excused himself to get dressed, and Sherlock poured himself some tea.

“You have questions, I imagine,” he said, adding sugar to his cup.

“You’re damn right I have questions,” John said, standing. “First of all, tell me the truth. Are you using again? I won't hesitate to take you down to Bart's and get tested.”

“Don’t be daft, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“I think it’s a valid question considering how you looked just now,” John said angrily.

“I was undercover for a case.” Sherlock walked into the living room and sat in his chair, sipping his tea.

John stood, following him, wanting to ask every question imaginable, but he stopped short. In the space where his chair used to be, there was a different one: dark brown leather, sleek but comfortable-looking.

“Where’s my chair?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“I decided it was time for a change." Sherlock shrugged.

“A change,” John echoed. 

“It’s Victor’s.”

John worked his jaw, feeling a strange emotion boiling inside of him, unlike anything else he had ever felt before. Sherlock watched him blankly for a long moment.

“Does he… is he your…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Boyfriend?” John finally managed to croak.

“Yes. I should think that’s rather obvious.” Sherlock casually took a sip of tea, as if this were the most normal thing to say in the world. “How was your sex holiday? I'm sorry, I mean to say,  _honeymoon_?”

John shook his head, feeling as though he couldn’t quite comprehend anything Sherlock was saying. “You have a… _you’re_ in a relationship.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “Victor and I were together for several years, and we recently started seeing each other again. Problem?”

 _Several years? _John’s mind rewound to the night in Angelo’s, the second night they had known each other, when he’d asked Sherlock if he had a girlfriend. He had replied, quite simply, that they “weren’t his area," which John had thought was the green light. When John had tentatively hit on him, though, Sherlock had shot him down. Flustered that he'd been rejected outright, John had never attempted it again.

Sherlock had never mentioned any kind of past relationship, and he had never seemed remotely interested in members of either sex-- with the exception of Irene, though that entire episode had left John even more confused than before.

But apparently, Sherlock had been in a relationship with a man before, and for an extended period of time. John’s mind couldn’t seem to wrap around the concept. Sherlock had kept such a large part of himself hidden for so long, which could explain his irrational anger to an extent... but that didn’t explain the strange lump in his throat, or why he was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. 

A small voice pricked at the back of his mind.

_So it wasn't that he didn't want men, or that relationships aren't his area, then. It was that he didn't want me. _

Feeling the tremor starting up again, John clenched his left hand. He swallowed and said, “So you’re…”

Sherlock blinked at him, as if he had no idea what John was going to ask.

“Gay?” John finished weakly.

Sherlock frowned. “Why does that matter to you? I assure you, being in close proximity to non-heterosexuals doesn’t make it contagious.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sherlock, that’s not…” John pinched his nose. “You know I’m not..." he didn't know how to finish that sentence.

Sherlock looked like he was about to make some kind of sardonic retort when Victor walked in. His blond hair was slightly wavy now that it was dry, and he was wearing a light grey suit with a white button down. It looked far more expensive than a professor’s salary would allow. 

“I have a lecture,” Victor said, his eyes flicking to John briefly. “Are you coming tonight?”

Sherlock put down his tea, standing up and meeting him at the door. “Working,” he said apologetically, slipping his hands under Victor’s jacket and around his waist.

“Sherlock." Victor looked pointedly at John again, but Sherlock ignored him. He pulled Victor towards him and started taking quick sips from his mouth which turned into a full-on snog. Horrified, John turned towards the window, trying to hide his shocked expression.

Eventually, he heard Victor step back. “Solve a case for me, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, then the door opened and he was gone.

John turned back to see Sherlock shutting the door and acting as if this were completely normal behaviour. He took out his laptop and started typing, and John couldn’t help but stare at him, his fists still clenched at his sides. 

Unable to keep looking at Sherlock without feeling like he was going to implode, John walked back into the kitchen and refilled the kettle. _How very British,_ he thought. _When in any kind of emotional distress, make tea._

So Sherlock had a boyfriend. He shouldn't be this upset. He was newly married, after all, to a woman he loved very much. 

He still couldn't quite seem to quash the irritation that Sherlock had smoothed over the John-sized hole in his life with satiny grey suits, emerald green eyes, and dark brown leather chairs. 

In fact, Sherlock didn’t seem to care whether John was in his life at all.

John closed his eyes, leaning against the counter slightly. “New case?” he said, trying for neutral ground, hoping that it would make his head stop spinning for a few minutes.

Sherlock came into the kitchen, propping a hip on the counter. “It’s very dangerous.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it always?”

Sherlock's mouth quirked upward into a half-grin. “More than usual.”

“Are you trying to put me off?” John asked, feeling a rising dread in his stomach.

Sherlock grinned wider. “God, no, I’m trying to recruit you.”

"Er, good.” John cleared his throat slightly. “Um. So, what’s the case?”

Sherlock straightened slightly, and John glanced up at him. Sherlock’s grin had faded, and he was running his fingers over his lip, which was slightly pinker than usual, probably from having just been kissed. John inhaled sharply and averted his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. “Have you ever heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beloved readers: I’m so sorry it has been an unbelievably long time since I updated this fic. I blame the fact that I was writing Swan Song and then I started law school... but that’s still no excuse for five months of silence. To tell the truth, I basically felt like this story wasn’t speaking to me, so I didn’t want to force it. 
> 
> Anyway, I made a few slight changes to the first chapter, so if you read it when I first posted it, you might want to reread it. Most notably, Victor originally asked Sherlock “Dinner tonight?” and I changed it to “Are you coming tonight?”
> 
> Also, I promise I won’t take too long to update again. Check out my unilock fic in the meantime (Ephemera), since I’ll probably be alternating updates between these two fics.
> 
> Thanks to Erin for being an amazing beta and friend.

 

John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock’s mouth briefly, and he flushed bright red, quickly averting his gaze. “Magnussen? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Sherlock kept his expression distant. “He’s sometimes known as the King of Blackmail. Out of all the criminals I’ve ever come across, none of them turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Why are you investigating him?" John asked distractedly. He put the sugar away, then realizing his mistake, he shook his head and took it out again.

“Lady Smallwood has engaged me to act on her behalf. It’s proving more… complicated than I had originally anticipated."

John frowned, still not looking Sherlock in the eye. “Magnussen’s blackmailing her?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“With what?”  

“He has some rather damning letters that her husband sent to a young paramour many years ago. She was only fifteen, though he didn’t know that at the time.”

“So… what are we going to do?” John finally looked up, his gaze meeting Sherlock’s for the first time since Victor had left. 

Sherlock watched conflicting emotions flick through John’s hard blue eyes: defiance, anger, and a flash of jealousy and possessiveness. He felt a tiny amount of satisfaction unfurl in the pit of his stomach.

The kettle clicked, snapping the tension like a thread. John blinked, breaking their eye contact, and turned to pour the tea.

Sherlock kept up his facade of nonchalance. “He’s currently in London, and it’s come to my attention that he may have the letters with him. Tonight is the perfect opportunity to retrieve them.”

“How do you know?”  

“Because I do,” Sherlock said dismissively. He pushed off the counter, starting toward the door. “Right-- I’ll see you tonight. I’ve some things to do.” He grabbed his coat and shrugged it on as he bounded down the stairs.

John followed at a trot, apparently forgetting the tea. “What’s tonight?”

Sherlock was already halfway down the hall. “I’ll text instructions.”

“Yeah, I’ll text _you_ if I’m available,” John called after him, sounding piqued. 

Sherlock tried not to grin as he flagged down a cab. “You are, I checked. Don’t bring a gun.”

“Why would I bring a gun?” John frowned again as he closed the front door behind them.  “And I haven’t actually agreed to come, by the way.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You need to get out of the house. You’ve put on seven pounds since you got married.”

John’s frown deepened. “It’s four pounds, actually.”

Sherlock jumped in the taxi. “Mary and I think seven. See you later.” As the cab pulled away, he rubbed his thumb over his lips, watching John in the rear view mirror and trying not to let himself hope.

 

* * *

John nervously smoothed down his trousers for what felt like the hundredth time, glancing out the window of the taxi. There was no real reason for him to be on edge, yet all afternoon it had felt like there had been something lodged in his throat. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath. After a full month of being separated from Sherlock, they were on a case again, even if it wasn’t exactly the same as it had been.

After his abrupt disappearance that morning, Sherlock had sent him instructions to go to an expensive tailor whom he'd paid for up front. John had expressed misgivings about spending so much money on clothing (which Sherlock had ignored), but he’d eventually acquiesced. Of course, Sherlock had refused to answer any of his questions all afternoon.

It was strange, but Mary had sounded almost happy when he’d called to tell her that he was going to be out all night. He deliberately hadn’t asked her when-- or why-- she’d spoken to Sherlock. He didn’t really want to know.

So here he was, somehow getting swept along in the tidal wave of Sherlock’s life once again. He would never admit it, but he could feel the excitement thrumming through his veins at not knowing what was going to happen next.

The taxi finally pulled up outside a posh-looking office building. As he paid the cabbie and stepped out, John saw dozens of people in tuxedos and ball gowns getting out of limos and moving toward the entrance. John frowned, trying to imagine the hundreds of scenarios that could possibly emerge from this situation.

“You’re early.” The deep, familiar voice came from directly behind him. 

John turned around to see Sherlock standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the array of people walking towards the building. His tux hung perfectly on him, just as all his tailored suits did, but the way the expensive material was cut seemed more revealing than if he’d been wearing no clothes at all. 

John realized he was standing with his mouth slightly open, and he clicked it shut. Sherlock appeared not to notice.

John cleared his throat. “So. This is all very James Bond, but… care to tell me why we’re here?”  

Sherlock glanced down at him, his keen eyes flicking over John in a way that made him stand up just a bit straighter. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted slightly into a crooked grin, and once their eyes met again, his pupils seemed a bit larger. 

Before John could say anything, Sherlock looked away again. “Charity auction.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I figured it was something like that. But why are _we_ here?”

“Magnussen is a member of the board hosting the event. This is his London headquarters. He’ll be completely distracted all evening, and no one will notice us amongst the crowd. All the normal security protocols have been suspended, save the final one up to his office.” 

John watched the crowd flowing toward the building, swallowing loudly. “You want to break in.”

Sherlock smirked. “In a manner of speaking, we won’t have to. A good tuxedo goes a long way, but we’ll need a little extra help to get into the office itself." 

“What are you talking about?” John turned to look at him again, but Sherlock had already started walking away. 

John swore under his breath and jogged to catch up. Some things never changed. 

They followed the swell of people through the large open doors leading into the lobby, which had been set up for a cocktail reception. John averted his eyes as they passed the security guards, but no one questioned them as they entered. Apparently, a good tuxedo really did go a long way.

Having sensed John’s anxiety, Sherlock leaned toward him, resting his hand on the small of John’s back. “Relax,” he whispered into John’s ear. 

John tried not to tense up even more. “I’m _fine_ ,” he said with a bit more force than was necessary. “What do you need me to do?”

Sherlock chuckled lightly. “Hang back, and don’t speak to me, but keep me in sight. Act natural.”

John wanted to make a sarcastic retort, but he couldn’t quite get past the fact that Sherlock’s hand was burning a hole in the small of his back.

Then it was gone, and Sherlock was walking in front of him as if they didn’t know each other at all.

John clenched his jaw slightly in annoyance. He picked up a glass of champagne and started sampling hors d'oeuvres, trying to act as if he were just another guest. He kept Sherlock in sight at all times, but he was simply chatting up some of the highbrows, many of whom he seemed to know.  

About twenty minutes later, someone out of John’s line of sight caught Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock turned his back to John, and his entire posture and demeanor changed as he started talking to the new arrival. John took a large sip of his drink and maneuvered around a large group of older women to his left so that he could move closer. As he came around the gossiping group, he could see who it was: Victor, in a suave white tuxedo jacket that set off the gold in his hair.

They were standing close together, their faces inches apart, and Victor was speaking softly. Sherlock’s hand slid around Victor’s waist as he spoke, his smile warm. It all emoted an intimacy that was completely at odds with how Sherlock normally acted.  

Anger twisted in John’s gut, and something vile and primal in the deepest parts of him snarled, rearing its ugly head. He knew he was supposed to stay back, but he couldn’t help himself. He took a bruschetta from a passing tray and moved a bit closer until he was within earshot.

“...thought you were going to be working tonight,” Victor was saying.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Sherlock said in a low purr. “Can I steal you for a moment?”

“You know I have to--”

“Don’t make me do it out here. Just one minute, please?” Sherlock sounded unusually demure-- almost passive-- which was unsettling. 

Victor sighed. “Alright.” They started moving away, so John downed the rest of his drink and set it on a tray before he followed at a short distance.

They walked to the far side of the lobby where a small outcropping obscured another section of the room. John caught a flash of curly hair as Sherlock pulled Victor around the corner.

John stopped short and glanced around, unsure if he was meant to follow. He involuntarily clenched his left hand and released it, trying not to think about the fact that his tremor was back. 

After a few minutes, a tray of champagne went by, so John grabbed another glass, downing half of it right away. He moved a bit further to the left until he came level with the outcropping. Taking a sweep of the whole room, John took another drink as he glanced over, and almost choked on the champagne. 

Victor was pressing Sherlock up against the marble wall, his blond head tucked into Sherlock’s neck. One of his hands was in Sherlock’s hair, the other wasn’t visible, though John could guess where it was. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his hands were fisted in the back of Victor’s white tux. His head had fallen back against the wall, exposing his long pale neck, and he was breathing in short punctuated bursts.

He looked completely undone. John had _never_ seen Sherlock look like that, and he was loathe to admit it but… it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

The feeling of horror tugging at John’s gut was a thousand times worse than when had seen them kissing that morning. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t move; it was as if his limbs had completely frozen in place.

Feeling his face flush, John tried to find the ability to turn away-- when Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes. 

His pale irises were almost completely obscured by dark, ravenous pupils, but he didn’t look away or seem embarrassed. In fact, he tilted his chin downward and stared directly at John, his mouth slightly open.

John didn’t even notice that the champagne glass had slipped from his fingers until it was in midair. He ripped his eyes from Sherlock’s wanton gaze and looked down, watching the crystal twist downward gracefully as if in slow motion, until it smashed into a supernova of glass and foam on the floor. 

John glanced up in horror to see that Victor had turned to look at him, his face a mixture of consternation and pity.  

A waiter appeared out of nowhere, and John made a blubbering attempt to apologize before he jumped ship. He felt his face turning beet red as he stepped back into the crowd, losing himself in another glass or two of champagne.

Some time later, John spotted Sherlock’s curly head bobbing over the crowd. He looked perfectly put together, not at all as if he’d just had another bloke’s hands down his pants only minutes before.

John didn’t move, allowing Sherlock to find him. After scanning the crowd for a bit, Sherlock met his eye. 

For a moment neither of them moved, and Sherlock looked him over with the same indifferent gaze he’d adopted all day. John felt his own jaw set into a hard line, but he remained still. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and raised his eyebrows, as if he were considering something.  

After a few more interminable seconds, Sherlock broke the gaze and turned away, starting to weave through the guests. Without prompting, John followed.

Sherlock strolled out of the lobby in a seemingly aimless and tipsy way, as though he were possibly looking for the loo. He finally stopped on a well-lit corridor with an elevator to the left. The loud roar of the cocktail party had faded to quiet murmurings in the background, and there were no guards in sight.

John walked up to him. “Okay, can you tell me now what the hell you brought me here for?” _If it was only to watch you shag another bloke, I’m going to punch you harder than the day you showed up alive._  

Sherlock pulled an access key out of his pocket. “I needed this. Victor is a member of Magnussen’s board, and I knew that he would have an access card on him-- but he would never give it to me voluntarily. I’ll slip it back in his pocket later.”

John sputtered, looking back up at Sherlock. “You stole it from Victor? What’s it for?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, walking to the elevator and using it to scan in. John followed him in, looking furtively around to make sure no one was in sight.

“Sherlock,” he hissed under his breath as the door closed. “Did you just take advantage of Victor to break into an office?”  

“What does it matter?” Sherlock looked straight ahead, his eyes cold and his entire body stiff.

John gaped at him. “What are you-- Sherlock, he loves you.” 

Sherlock snorted in derision. “Human error.” 

“Sherlock--” 

“We have to find the letters. I don’t have time for your moral objections right now.”

John looked daggers at him, but Sherlock was as immutable as ever. When the elevator doors opened, Sherlock immediately swept into the office. 

“They have to be here somewhere. Maybe a safe…” he muttered, poking around the room. “John, start looking through the desk. We don’t have much time.” 

John clamped his mouth shut, trying not to snap at him.

“What is that perfume? It smells familiar.” Sherlock turned his nose upward as if he were a dog on a scent. “I’ll check upstairs. Keep looking.” He swept off without another word.

John had finished looking in the desk and had started on the filing cabinet when heheard the thump. At first, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d heard. It sounded unnatural, like someone had fallen down, and his entire being pricked into defense mode at the sound. 

 _Sherlock._  

Without making a conscious decision to move, John was suddenly sprinting upstairs, panic slicing through his core.  

“Sherlock!” he yelled as he ran into the room. A man in a tuxedo-- Magnussen, presumably-- was on the floor on the far side, looking slightly concussed. John barely spared him a second thought, because Sherlock was on the ground with red blooming on his white tuxedo shirt. 

“Oh my _god_ , what happened?” John rushed over, pulling out his phone with shaking hands, while simultaneously trying to find the source of the bleeding. 

“He got shot.” The man picked his glasses up off the floor and put them on, watching John like the cat that got the cream.

John tried to ignore the frisson of fear that ran down his spine at that look. He didn’t have time to think about anything other than the fact that Sherlock was bleeding out between his fingers. It was like something from one of his nightmares. 

He furtively called an ambulance, and the next several minutes felt like a lifetime. By the time the paramedics arrived and they had been loaded into the ambulance, Sherlock was already going into cardiac arrest. 

Everything took on a surreal quality, as if the world were moving too fast and too slowly at the same time. Wondering briefly if he was going into shock, John watched helplessly as they tried to start Sherlock’s heart again.  

“Sherlock, we’re losing you.” It was his own voice, but it sounded far away. 

_Sherlock. Please._

“It doesn’t look good,” one paramedic was whispering to another. “Nobody can survive this kind of wound.”

“Shut up, his friend is here, you idiot.”

No pulse. 

“Sherlock, please.” His voice sounded strained. 

_Don’t do this to me. Not again. Please._

When they got to the hospital, Sherlock was quickly rolled toward the emergency surgery. John was still clutching Sherlock’s hand, and he couldn’t let go until the nurse had pried it away. 

He tried to follow the gurney into the operating area, but the nurse stopped him.  “Sir, I’m sorry, but you have to wait here.”

“But I--”

“Sir.” The nurse gave him the same look he’d given to family members dozens of times before in his life, and he stopped in his tracks. 

After the doors swung shut, the hallway was quiet. There was no more shouting, no beeping of machines, no defibrillators.  

Within seconds, the silence was pounding in his ears. 

John slumped against a wall, trying to pull the ridiculous tuxedo tie off. He hadn’t really let it in, not let himself realize it until now… but he’d seen the wound. A shot at point-blank range to the abdomen was almost always fatal. 

How had he let this happen? Sherlock had been right upstairs, and he’d let him get shot. He’d failed him. He’d failed them both. 

_No pulse._

_Nobody could survive this._

A crystal clear image of the last time he’d seen Sherlock prostrate on the ground, bloodied, his eyes glassy and empty, pushed through to the surface.

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could_.  

There was blood everywhere: blood on his hands, blood blossoming on a white tuxedo shirt, blood smeared on a pale face, dark red blood dripping on the pavement. 

_Not again. Don’t do this to me again._

He couldn’t feel a pulse in the cold wrist, which turned to cool marble beneath his fingertips.  

_Please, Sherlock, just for me. One more miracle._

Unable to stop himself from shaking, John held his head in both hands and tried to shield himself from the onslaught.

After what felt like hours, John heard the door open. He snapped up from his half-crouch on the floor, but his knees almost buckled when he saw the doctor’s face. 

“Sir--”

“ _No_.” John shook his head, backing away slowly.

“Doctor Watson, please try and remain calm.” The doctor spoke in soft tones, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal. “I’m Doctor Morrison. I was working on Sherlock Holmes, the man you came in with.”

John couldn’t speak, and he could barely hear what the doctor was saying over the pounding in his ears. He pressed his hand to the wall, trying to keep the room from spinning.

“Doctor Watson, please come with me. You should sit down.”

“Please, just… don’t…” He clenched his left fist again.

The doctor put his hand on John’s shoulder. “His wounds were too severe, and we did everything we could but… he had been in and out of cardiac arrest for more than forty minutes. I’m so sorry.”

_Not again. Not again. Please._

John was shaking his head, unable to process this information. “Please,” he said. It came out as almost a whimper. 

The doctor was about to say something else, when another doctor burst in and whispered in Doctor Morrison’s ear. 

Doctor Morrison’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I have to get back--” he said, and they both ran back in the direction they had come from. 

John followed, but luckily the doctors seemed too distracted to notice. As doctors and nurses rushed into the room, shouting orders, John pressed both his hands to the glass of the observation window. Sherlock was still hooked up to dozens of machines, but the doctors had obviously stopped working on him. He looked pale, so unbelievably pale. 

John watched the doctors start working in surprise, unable to understand, until he realized... somehow, inconceivably, Sherlock’s heart had started beating again. 

 

* * *

Once Sherlock had stabilized, he was wheeled to a recovery room. A nurse found John in the restricted area, but she didn't even chastise him.

“You can go see him now,” she said, watching him curiously. “Is there anyone else we should notify?” 

“Um…” John cleared his throat. “Yes. His parents and his… boyfriend.” John gave her the Holmeses’ number, but he realized he didn’t know Victor’s.

“I’ll take care of it.” She led him to a door down the hallway, then she was gone.  

John took a moment to breathe, his hand on the handle, before he opened the door. 

When he saw Sherlock, it was like being hit in the solar plexus. He closed his eyes, taking a breath, and reopened them, trying to look with a doctor’s appraising gaze. Sherlock was still unconscious, and he was no longer intubated, just wearing an oxygen mask.  

They’d had to do extensive surgery on his abdomen, and there were still a lot of bandages. He tried not to imagine which inner organs had been hit.

Sherlock’s skin was still extremely pale, but it was no longer the greyish color of imminent death as it had been in the operating room. 

John moved over to the side of the bed, pulling off his tuxedo jacket. It seemed comical, somehow, that he was still wearing it. He pulled a chair up next to Sherlock, and settled in to wait. 

Long hours passed, and John tried not to think about all the ways it could still go wrong. In order to stop the panic that was filling his chest from expanding further, he watched the monitor above Sherlock’s head, clinging onto the heartbeat that had almost ended again-- but this time, it wouldn’t have been a trick. 

 

 

* * *

The next thing he knew, his head was resting on the bedside and he heard a low groan.

“Mmmuhhh...”

John snapped immediately to full consciousness. “Sherlock?” He rubbed his eyes groggily and stood, grasping Sherlock’s hand. “Can you hear me?” 

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, but only barely. “Mary,” he whispered.

“No.” John frowned. “No, Sherlock… it’s me. John.”

Sherlock blinked at him as though he didn’t quite understand what was happening.  

John pursed his lips. “Sherlock. Who shot you?”

Sherlock swallowed. “No.”

“Please, just… tell me.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, simply shaking his head. 

John hesitated, then he reached out towards Sherlock’s face. Just before his fingers brushed Sherlock’s cheek, however, Sherlock turned his head away. “Can you get Victor?” 

John froze, bile burning his throat. He didn't say anything for a long moment, but Sherlock didn't move. _  
_

“Yeah, okay” John muttered. He grabbed his jacket, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

John leaned his head against the door, his stomach still twisted. _Of course Sherlock would want Victor when he's injured, right?_ Victor was his boyfriend, and... apparently, the most important person in his life now. He tried not to think about how much that hurt.

Rubbing his eyes once more, John gathered himself a bit and walked to the waiting room to find Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

“John,” Violet said, immediately grasping John’s hands. “Is he--”

“He’ll be fine. It will take him a while to recover, but it seems that he’s going to be just fine.”

Mr. Holmes sighed deeply, hanging his head, and Mrs. Holmes clasped John’s hands, her eyes glistening. “Do you know who did this?” she asked quietly.

A flash of anger pulsed through him. “No. No, I don’t.” _And he won’t tell me._

 “Violet!” John heard footsteps coming down the hallway. 

“Oh, god, Victor, Sherlock… he’s…” Mrs. Holmes dropped John’s hands and fell into Victor’s waiting arms. 

“Shhh, Vi. He’ll be alright.” Victor smoothed his hand down her back. "Right, John?" 

John looked up at him grimly. “Yes, but... he was shot from point-blank range, from the front. He must have seen the shooter, and he won’t tell me who it was.”

Victor frowned. “What has he said? Is he awake?” 

John swallowed, his mouth feeling completely dry all of a sudden. “He didn’t say anything, except… he asked for you,” he said hoarsely. He met Victor’s gaze again, and couldn’t bring himself to ask, _Why you? Why is it you, and not…_  

He wouldn’t let himself finish the thought. 

Victor said nothing. Seeking respite, John glanced at Mr. Holmes, but he was watching John with what could only be described as a knowing look. 

Unable to bear it any longer, John turned on his heel and fled, striding down the hallway. As he walked, he pulled out his phone.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock heard the door open and shut, and the familiar sound of Victor’s gait as he walked across the room. A chair scraped closer to the bed, and long fingers brushed the curls from his forehead. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. Victor was at his bedside, watching him with eyes filled with relief and a touch of pain.

“Who was it, Sherlock?” Victor asked quietly.

Grinding his teeth together slightly, Sherlock shook his head.

Victor exhaled in a puff of air. “John said that you had to have been facing the shooter. You saw who it was.”

“No.” His voice still felt slightly rough, probably from being intubated. 

“Stop lying." 

“Not lying,” Sherlock croaked.

Victor sighed. “You can’t keep doing this.”  

Sherlock opened his eyes, unsure what they were talking about now. His brain was still frustratingly fuzzy from the morphine. “Doing what?” 

Victor’s cupped Sherlock’s cheek with his other hand. “Asking John to come get me. Kissing me in front of him yesterday. You’re never that affectionate in front of other people. I know what you’re doing. ”

“Silly me. I thought I was in hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound.” 

Victor didn’t laugh. “You know what I mean, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. Victor sighed, standing and moving over to the window.  

For a long time neither of them spoke. Sherlock knew from experience that Victor's patience was surpassed only by Sherlock's stubbornness, a combination which (in the past) had resulted in stony silence for days on end.

He sighed in exasperation. “Very well, tell me so that I can sleep.” Sherlock reached over to pump up the morphine drip. Victor frowned, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, daring him to say something.

Victor simply sighed, crossing his arms. “Well, for starters, the tryst at the charity auction? Really?” 

Sherlock frowned even more deeply. “That had nothing to do with him. I was trying to clean up _your_ mess.” He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Victor’s jaw worked into the hard line that Sherlock knew meant he was in for a row.  

“I never _asked_ you to do anything about that.” Victor’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it had the full force of soldierly steel behind it. That was one of the few things he and John had in common, and it was equally effective. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who texted me a month ago?” 

“And if I hadn’t, you’d have no hope of getting out from under Magnussen’s thumb.” 

“Stop trying to change the subject, Sherlock.” 

“Then stop speaking nonsense.”

“Stop acting like you don’t have a heart!” Victor yelled, his fists clenched. 

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. Victor hardly ever raised his voice. 

“I’ve been _reliably_ informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock said quietly, over-emphasizing the consonants of the words.  

Victor’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t know what I was saying back then. You didn’t exactly give me a reason to think otherwise.”

Sherlock sighed. “For god’s sake--”

“You really don’t know why I said that?”  

Sherlock was starting to feel the billowing clouds of morphine washing over him, but he tried not to let it show. “Of course I do.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Because I chose this--” he waved toward the morphine drip-- “over you. Simple, predictable.”

Victor shook his head. “You make everything seem so hard-lined, so simple.”

Sherlock frowned, about to argue, but Victor continued. “I thought that you were incapable of caring about me as much as getting the next fix-- the next high, the next orgasm. I was just someone you would use to get off with when you needed and then I was left in the dark when you didn’t. That’s why I said you didn’t have a heart. I didn’t realize that what you feel for John--” he waved his hand as if searching for a word, “--transcends that. I had an inkling of it a month ago, but I basically had thought that you were just pouting because your favorite toy had been taken away.”

Victor had never actually said it in so many words, and it was harder to hear than Sherlock had thought it would be. “Like I said, predictable.” His mouth tasted acrid.

“And like _I_ said, I was wrong. You do have a heart, but it has never belonged to me. It belongs to him.”

“Too bad he doesn’t _want it_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

Victor exhaled sharply, and Sherlock looked up at him, realizing his mistake. Upping the morphine had been a poor decision. He reached over to downgrade the drip, and Victor caught his hand. 

“Dammit Sherlock, stop hiding. There's something about who shot you… just tell me.”

Sherlock turned his head, but Victor pulled his face back again.

“Sherlock.”  

“I can’t,” Sherlock said. It came out in almost a whimper.

Victor sighed, seeming resigned. “You’ve always been an enigma. I guess I shouldn’t have thought that would change just because you fell for someone.”

Sherlock looked directly into those green eyes he knew so well, but they were as immutable as ever. Finally, Victor released him, and he walked toward the door. “I’ll let your parents in. Vi is worried sick, so make sure you reiterate that you’re going to be fine. You know how she gets.” 

Sherlock wanted to stop him, but he didn’t know how. “Victor.”

Victor paused with his hand on the door, but didn’t look at him. 

Sherlock licked his lips. He really needed to turn down the morphine drip; his cognitive abilities were far below normal. “I’m… sorry.” The words felt strange in his mouth.  

Victor was still staring at the door. “I know,” he said, and left the room.

 


End file.
